Slow flame

Slow flame, smouldering summer day
spread thin on clematis, on pine,
a flower handled like drifted snow.
Secret she crossed the afternoon,
hiding in tough entangled grass
dismissed rule's sternly plotted steps,
her spinster season wished away.
Hours as those were go by too soon,
nor summers hold, but pass. They pass
like dying flowers, like drifted snow,
like protests from a lover's lips.